The Leveller

by Julia Durango

  I struggle to remember his name.

  Wyn?

  Wyn Salvador.

  I gasp. I remember now. I’m in the MEEP. Trapped in the MEEP.

  “Where’s Kora?” I ask him. “Did she get away? We need to go after her.”

  Wyn blinks. He seems confused.

  I look around and see we’re in Mama Beti’s house, the hallway lights twinkling above me. “What are we doing here?” I ask, wondering why exactly I’m lying on the floor.

  “You don’t . . . you don’t remember,” Wyn says. It is not a question.

  I search my memory, trying to recall the circumstances in which we came to be in this unusual position. The last thing I remember is uncovering Kora at the Tropicana but I don’t remember where she went after that, what we did with her. I shake my head. “Sorry, I—what’d I miss?”

  Wyn smiles. It’s a strange, rueful grin. Then he glances down at his right hand, which, now that I get a good look at it, appears to have had several bones removed.

  “Did Kora do that to you?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows. This sudden surge of anger makes me feel like my old self again. “Because I will take her down.”

  Wyn shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t Kora.”

  “Then how? Who?”

  “You,” he says, almost apologetically.

  My mouth drops open and I pull myself up to sitting. “No.”

  “Yes,” Wyn says, getting to his feet. He offers me his good hand and hauls me off the floor.

  I stand, unsteadily at first. Wyn circles an arm around my waist and I swivel away. Whoa. What is that about? “Hey, hands to yourself, buddy,” I half joke.

  Wyn stares for a moment. “Just to be clear, you don’t remember anything after spotting Kora. Like, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  For some reason, I’m embarrassed. “No. Was there something . . . important?”

  He sighs. “I’ll tell you about it on the way there.”

  “The way where?”

  “You’ll see,” says Wyn, leading me through the rubble and out of the room. “But first we’ve got a date with Larry.”

  Larry. I smile. At least, thankfully, I remember him.

  NINETEEN

  “BRRRAAAAAOOOKKKK!”

  Larry, it seems, is excited to see us. As the kraken speeds toward us on the seawall I try to look cool and collected, but it’s hard not to break out my crossbow and start pumping arrows into him. He’s a kraken, after all, and a mighty big one.

  Wyn must see the flash of panic cross my face because he puts his good hand on my shoulder.

  I’m not sure why he has a sudden onset of the touchy-feelies, but I handle it a little more gracefully this time.

  “Remember, none of this is real,” Wyn says, just as Larry raises a beastly tentacle and splashes us.

  The cold water makes me gasp. “Well, it feels real,” I say, somewhat less enamored of Wyn’s world and its cutting-edge sensory modules than I once was.

  On the walk here, Wyn filled me in on my memory lapse. Kora is dead. Or at least, we think she is. And then, apparently, like an idiot, I willingly stepped into the Black. Wyn doesn’t know what happened to me there, but I guess I started screaming bloody murder. He said it sounded like someone was torturing me, like I had gone stark raving mad with pain and fear.

  Fortunately, he was still holding my hand at that point and somehow managed to pull me back to the MEEP.

  Unfortunately, I squeezed his hand so tightly I did some major damage to his avatar.

  I glance down again at his limp hand.

  “I told you, it doesn’t hurt,” he assures me. “It’s just useless until I gulp down a healing potion.”

  “Right. So what are we doing here?” I ask, jumping as Larry extends one of his purple tentacles in my direction.

  “Going for a ride,” Wyn replies just as Larry wraps a tentacle around us and lifts us in the air.

  “What the hell? What the hell?!” I yell as Larry starts thrashing through the sea. He has the two of us raised in the air over his head, like a five-year-old holding an ice cream cone. Wyn and I are squished into each other. Full-frontal togetherness, with our arms pinned to our sides.

  Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe how this feels to me. Wyn, on the other hand, seems weirdly at ease. Comfortable enough to crack jokes.

  “So how do you like the view?” he asks, trying to keep a straight face.

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Do you mean the one of the ocean or the two tiny freckles near your ear? Because if you’re talking about the freckles, I think they’re a divine enhancement. Let me guess: you used a buy-one-get-one-free coupon at the Freckles Emporium?”

  Wyn makes a face. “I’ll have you know my avatar is one hundred percent me, right down to the very last freckle.”

  Larry does a little twirl in the water now, like a ballerina, and I look over my shoulder to see where we’re headed.

  “See that little isle in the distance?” Wyn says, pointing with his chin.

  I nod. A small dome of land rises in the middle of the crystal-blue water, its sandy white beach topped by lush green palm trees.

  “That’s where we’re going. It’s where I keep all the good stuff stashed.”

  A few minutes later Larry is reluctantly setting us ashore. Wyn picks up a fallen coconut from the beach and waves it at the kraken. Larry’s bulbous eyeballs grow even bigger as he swims back out a few yards, his tentacles waving in anticipation. Wyn heaves the coconut, which Larry catches expertly.

  “My turn,” I say, and pitch two more.

  Larry juggles the three coconuts like a circus clown while Wyn and I whistle and hoot in appreciation. Finally, Larry pops the coconuts in his beak, waves good-bye, and sinks back under the sea.

  Wyn motions for me to follow him. We head up the beach until we get to a break in the palm trees, then take a path carved through the vegetation. After a minute we reach a clearing and I bark out a laugh.

  “You built a treehouse?” I say, shaking my head at the elaborate construction in front of me. It looks like something straight out of Swiss Family Robinson or Gilligan’s Island, every kid’s childhood fantasy.

  Wyn looks half embarrassed, half proud. “It was my first custom creation in the MEEP. I’ve always wanted a treehouse, ever since I was little, so I decided to make one for myself.”

  “Well done,” I say, admiring the multilevel open-air architecture. “Rustic, yet charming at the same time.”

  “Wait until you see the waterfall shower in the back. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  We go up and down a dozen ladders, slides, and rope bridges—slowly, since Wyn has to do everything one-handed—and peek into a dozen different rooms. We finally end up on a platform high above the tree line.

  “This is where I like to sleep,” Wyn says, pointing to a big woven hammock strung between bamboo poles.

  “Under the stars—I should have known,” I say, admiring the view from this bird’s-eye perch. The entire island is surrounded by a ring of brilliant white sand and sparkling blue water beyond that. In the distance I see a pod of dolphins cavorting.

  Wyn opens a cabinet and pulls out a first-aid kit. The kit contains a dozen small bottles lined up in a row like colorful soldiers. He selects a green potion and holds it to the light. “This should do it,” he says, and glugs it down. Then he holds his mangled hand out in front of him and together we watch it shimmer and waver. Then, pop, it takes proper shape again. “Just like new.”

  “You don’t happen to have any ‘beam me up, Scotty’ potions or ruby slippers in that cabinet, do you?” I ask, only half joking.

  Wyn shakes his head. “Sorry. I never even used to keep healing potions here, but once I started playing with Larry, I figured it was a good idea. Especially after the one time he hugged
me a little too hard.”

  I nod, remembering the anaconda that nearly squeezed me down a few dress sizes. “I suppose a hug from Larry could crack a rib or two.”

  “Exactly. After that I decided to keep some potions on hand in case it happened again.”

  “And what’s this?” I ask, picking up what looks like a remote control sitting on top of the cabinet.

  “Ah,” says Wyn, taking it from me. “You’re going to love this.” He clicks a button. Instantly, a tarp rolls out above our heads just as a rumble of thunder shakes the treehouse and rain begins to fall.

  It’s a slow, steady rain, the kind that feels soothing, cleansing almost, as it falls around you. “You’re right, I do love it,” I say, sticking a hand out to feel the drops. “Show me more.”

  Wyn hands the remote back to me and I experiment with all the buttons. I make it rain harder, then softer, then I roll up the tarp and let the sun back out. I change day to dusk, dusk to night, and night back to day again. I scrutinize the MEEP MAIL icon. “I don’t suppose . . .”

  Wyn gives me an impatient look. “Believe me, it was one of the first things I tried. They must have cut off all communication frequencies. Can’t receive mail, can’t send it.”

  “Right,” I say, trying to ignore his tone. Of course Wyn’s already tried everything. Still, I had to ask, didn’t I? Because maybe there’s one small thing he missed. One little crack in the armor surrounding us.

  “Try the banana icon,” Wyn suggests, a hint of apology in his voice.

  I press a button on the remote and a family of monkeys appears in the trees around us, chittering among themselves in friendly fashion. I smile as a baby monkey takes a seat on Wyn’s shoulder, and Wyn grins back at me. I turn up the temperature to “tropical,” and even though we can’t sweat in the MEEP—thank God—somehow I still register, still feel, the extra intensity of the sun.

  “Whew! Easy there, before our avatars melt,” Wyn says, reaching up to give the baby monkey a scratch between the ears. “How about a swim to cool off?”

  I look down at the gorgeous beach. I’d love nothing more than to splash through those waves right now, but we’ve got work to do. “Shouldn’t we go back? Or at least come up with a new plan?”

  “Go back where, Nixy? And do what? Our last plan nearly killed you.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Yes, I lost my memory for a bit but it was hardly a life-or-death situation.”

  “That’s because you don’t remember it, Nixy, but I do. I had to listen to you scream. You were in so much pain you crushed my hand. If I had let go . . .”

  “Fine,” I concede. “But you’re just proving my point. We need to figure out our next move. Not take a vacation.”

  “What move? I’ve been trying to bust out of here for days. There’s nothing we can do. Going back to Havana’s not going to help, not right now anyway. Here on the island we have total privacy. There aren’t any Meeple or portals, so there’s no way for anyone to spy on us. Remember, Rico Suave’s still out there somewhere.”

  “And when I find him I’m going to rip his arms out. Maybe even mess up his perfect hair,” I joke. As I’d hoped, the serious look on Wyn’s face turns to a smile again. I like him better this way, I realize.

  And all of a sudden, I feel tired of worrying, tired of anger, tired of thinking. I find myself wondering, Why not take a little break? My brain deals better with knotty problems when they’re on the back burner, anyway.

  And, of course, there is the part I don’t tell Wyn.

  I have the distinct feeling there is something else I have forgotten. Something Wyn hasn’t told me.

  “Wyn—” I begin, but then I lose my nerve.

  “What is it? Tell me,” he says, the smile still playing on his lips.

  “You did tell me everything, right? Everything that happened after we trapped Kora?”

  Wyn’s face goes slack and his eyes skitter away from mine.

  “Everything important,” he finally says, turning back to me. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything at all?” His eyes are searching mine now, as if he’s trying to find the memories inside of me.

  But there are none.

  I shake my head.

  Wyn’s shoulders slump and he looks away again.

  “Never mind,” I say, feeling more confused than ever. “Let’s go swim.”

  The water feels delicious—not too cold, not too warm, but that just-right temperature that almost never happens in the real world. I let the waves tumble me around in the shallows like a piece of driftwood while Wyn bodysurfs nearby. He’s changed into bright green swim trunks and I’m wearing the most suitable thing I could find in my virtual closet—the tiny little dress I wore to level Coop. That seems like years ago now instead of weeks. In any case, the dress is small enough to look like a one-piece skirted swimsuit, and it’s better than swimming in cargo pants or drowning in the wench dress.

  I try my best to enjoy this picture-perfect moment and give my brain a rest, but it’s harder than it should be. Images of Kora, Rico Suave, Diego Salvador, and even the damn sharks from the maze keep appearing before my eyes. I try to push the images away, back to the no-man’s-land part of my brain, to save for later. I don’t want to think about them now.

  I remember the meditation exercises Jill makes me do whenever I’m stressing about school and college too much. I close my eyes for a moment and try to empty my mind. I focus on the sound of the waves around me, the smell of salt in the air. I hold my breath and duck under the water. The images in my head slowly disappear and everything goes dark.

  The water presses in around me.

  Black.

  I stifle a scream.

  Memory of the Black overwhelms every thought, every sense I have.

  Pain.

  Fire.

  Death.

  No, not again!

  I snap my eyes back open and pull myself up from the water.

  I break the surface and search for Wyn.

  I don’t see him. I call his name and start to panic. I pump my arms and legs, thrashing in a full circle, searching the water for him.

  “Wyn!” I scream, just as he surfaces down the shore from me, shaking the water from his body like a dog. He turns and waves, a big grin on his face.

  Wyn.

  I calm myself and wave back.

  Just stay with Wyn, I tell myself.

  Wyn will keep me safe.

  TWENTY

  “HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN HERE?” I SAY AS WE FOLLOW A PATH through the island jungle. I am picking ripe berries from the foliage and tossing them to our monkey friends in the treetops. They squeal with pleasure as they take flying leaps from tree to tree.

  “Three days,” Wyn says, glancing at me in concern.

  He’s worried about me, I can tell.

  And honestly, I’m worried about me.

  We don’t talk about it but we both know.

  I’ve changed.

  I’m not me anymore.

  I’m scared.

  Scared of feeling pain again, the excruciating pain of the Black.

  Scared to do anything at all that might make it return.

  Scared to leave the island.

  I even refuse to go into the sea now, afraid of its murky depths, afraid of losing myself in its darkness.

  So we go for walks instead. We play catch with Larry and pick fruit with the monkeys. We catch our own fish from the island streams, grill it on the beach, and wash it down with guava juice. We don’t remind each other that it’s only virtual food and drink, that our real bodies are back home being pumped full of IV fluids to keep us alive. We don’t remind ourselves that we’re running out of time. We don’t talk about our latest strategy, because we don’t have one.

  The fact is, the only plan I can think of is to go back to
Havana, hope that Rico Suave shows up again, and pray that we can successfully ambush him this time. Oh, and then convince him to tell us more than Kora did. It is a lot to hope for. Too much to hope for. And besides, I don’t want to go back to Havana. The Black is there.

  “Tell me more about your childhood,” I say, trying to take my mind off our troubles. I like hearing Wyn talk about his life before his mom died, how she used to take him with her on her musical tours, about the adventures they had together in Paris and Rome and Buenos Aires. It all sounds so perfect, like a fairy tale.

  “What more would you like to know?” asks Wyn, popping a berry into his mouth. “Pretty sure I’ve told you all the good parts by now.”

  “Did your mom sing you to sleep when you were little?” I ask. “My dad used to sing me Irish drinking songs every night. I’d usually fall asleep after a few rounds of ‘Nancy Whiskey’ and a ‘Danny Boy’ or two.” I belt out a few lines of “Nancy Whiskey” in my best Irish brogue and Wyn rewards me with a grin.

  “Can’t say my mom ever lulled me to sleep with pub songs,” he answers, “but she did read me nursery rhymes every night. She had a big illustrated Mother Goose book that she’d kept from her own childhood.”

  “You mean like ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ and ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’? You must have fallen asleep instantly,” I tease.

  Wyn gives me a little push and I return a light elbow. “It wasn’t that boring,” he says. “Sometimes we’d have a contest and change the words, to see who could make the other laugh.”

  “Give me an example,” I say. We’ve reached the homemade jungle swings Wyn made yesterday while I waded in the nearby stream with my fishing net.

  “Well, pick a nursery rhyme and I’ll make one up for you,” Wyn says as we start swinging.

  “‘Little Miss Muffet,’” I order as I pump my legs beside him.

  He quickly obliges. “Little Miss Bauer sat in her tower, eating a burger and fries. Along came a spider who sat down beside her and said, ‘I prefer zee french flies.’”